
Qass_£T2X5L 



GPO 



IN 


MEMORIAM 


w*ti 




J . VV . _D. 




QXWt O^M&A &t*w»KL. 








BOSTON: 


PUBLISHED FOR HIS FRIENDS, 


By CROSBY. NICHOLS, LEE AND COMPANY. 




1860. 



I 


6 


RIVERSIDE PRESS: 




H. 0. HOUGHTON, PRINTER, CAMBRIDGE. 


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PREFACE 



Few words are needed to explain the origin and con- 
tents of this volume, which is not addressed to the public, 
but only to those who knew and loved the subject of its 
pages. It contains, — 

I. A Memoir of the Life of John W. Browne, by his 
friend, John A. Andrew. 

II. A Sermon preached at the Third Congregational 
Church, Hingham, May 6, 1860, by Rev. Charles C. 
Shackford. 

III. An Extract from a Sermon preached at the North 
Church, Salem, June 3, 1860, by Rev. Edmund B. Willson. 

IV. A Resolution adopted by the New England Anti- 
Slavery Convention, May 31, 1860, together with an 
Extract from the Speech of Wendell Phillips. 



IV PREFACE. 

V. Some Remarks concerning Mr. Browne, by his 
classmate, James Dana, July 18, 1860. 

VI. Some Remarks concerning Mr. Browne, by his 
classmate, Charles Sumner. 

VII. Selections from the Notices of the Life and Char- 
acter of Mr. Browne, which appeared in the newspapers 
of the day ; of which it may be permitted to mention 
that that signed with the initial " A " was written by 
Samuel P. Andrews, and that signed " * " by Dr. Walter 
Channing. 

Several of Mr. Shackford's hearers had requested from 
him a copy of his discourse for publication, when, the fact 
becoming known, it was suggested that it might well be 
accompanied from the press by these other testimonials 
of respect for Mr. Browne's memory. The suggestion 
was willingly accepted, and the work of collecting and 
arranging these pages has been affectionately and rev- 
erently performed by A. G. B., Jr. 



MEMOIR 



JOHN A. ANDREW. 



When to the common rest that crowns our days, 

Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 

* * * * -when our bitter tears 

Stream as the eyes of those that love us close, 

We think on what they were, with many fears 

Lest goodness die with them and leave the coming years. 

Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow 
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
Of ages; * * * let the light 
Stream on his deeds of love that shunned the sight 
Of all but heaven. 

THE AGES. 



MEMOIR. 



John White Browne was born at Salem, March 
29, 1810, and at the time of his death, May 1, 
1860, had, therefore, recently completed his fiftieth 
year. He was the son of James and Lydia (Vincent) 
Browne, and his father was the eldest lineal descendant 
of Elder John Browne, the Ruling Elder of the First 
Church in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, whose 
appointment in 1660, the Reverend John Higginson 
made a condition of his own assumption of the clerical 
charge, and who is probably identical with John 
Browne, one of the Assistants named in the original 
charter of the Colony in 1628, who, with his brother 
Samuel, was banished in 1629 for a supposed leaning 
towards Episcopacy, but returned to Salem after an 
interval of several years, which were passed in Eng- 
land and Maryland. 

Few persons of the rare qualities of intellect which 
our friend possessed by nature, and of so precious 
acquirements, from reading and reflection, have at the 



age of fifty years done less than he to attract the curi- 
osity or the attention of the public ; while fewer still, of 
whatever capacity or culture, have lived more useful 
lives, or died more truly loved, respected, and rev- 
erenced by those to whom they were known. The 
tribute to his memory, contained in the discourse of 
his friend, who, of all the tenants of the pulpit, was 
perhaps nearest to his heart, leaves less to be added 
than might otherwise be written ; but a brief and 
simple outline of some of the principal facts of his 
life, will help to complete the record. 

Mr. Browne was devoted quite early to one of the 
learned professions. He was fitted for college at the 
Salem Classical School, (the first classical school ever 
established in New England,) under the care of masters 
Theodore Ames and Henry K. Oliver. He entered 
Harvard College in 1826, and was graduated as one 
of the first scholars of the class of 1830. That class 
numbered among its members the late Thomas Hop- 
kinson, a Judge of the Court of Common Pleas of 
Massachusetts, and Charles Sumner, now one of the 
Senators in Congress from that State ; and during the 
whole of Mr. Browne's collegiate life, he was the 
chum of one or the other of those gentlemen. After 
graduation, he commenced the study of the law at 
the Law School connected with the University, and 



pursued it further in the office of the late Rufus 
Choate at Salem. After the removal of Mr. Choate to 
Boston, in 1832, he became a student with the late 
Leverett Saltonstall, so many years the President and 
leader of the Essex bar, with whom he completed his 
novitiate as a lawyer. Those who shared the intimate 
confidence of Mr. Browne in his later years, will re- 
member how his voice and eye kindled and warmed 
whenever he spoke of these and of some other friends 
of his earlier manhood. His love of quiet, patient, 
truth-seeking pursuits, — of that search for knowledge 
which is its own reward, — must have made this period 
of study, compared with all other passages of his life, 
one of peculiar happiness and satisfaction ; and those 
who had guided or befriended him in threading his 
way, and especially such as had then won his personal 
affection, were cherished and remembered by him with 
the utmost fidelity. 

After his admission to the bar, Mr. Browne became 
resident at Lynn, and began there the practice of his 
profession. There he continued in the performance of 
its ordinary duties until his removal to Boston, where 
the variety and extent of employment affords oppor- 
tunity for subdivision of labor and for some selection 
on the part of the practitioner. In Boston, he de- 
voted himself almost exclusively to the department of 



6 

conveyancing and to office-practice, avoiding, except at 
rare intervals, the anxieties and excitements of the 
court-room. Notwithstanding a singular directness and 
clearness of vision, a great capacity to learn and to 
remember both principles and details, a perception 
which no sophistry could deceive, a power of discrim- 
ination which could defy every difficulty and entangle- 
ment, a style of writing and of speech, and a manner, 
voice and temperament all fitted for the eloquence of 
the forum, a moral hesitation was from the first always 
in the way of his self-possession, and therefore of his 
success in the arena of the bar. But if he did not 
perfectly succeed, yet he never failed. Whatever 
forensic task he undertook, he accomplished to the 
satisfaction of his audience, if not of himself ; and 
when I have contrasted the bold nonsense of shallow 
declaimers, sometimes mistaken for argumentative ora- 
tory, and often winning the crown, with the crystal 
reasoning, simple and beautiful statement, chaste and 
forcible style of John W. Browne, as I have occasion- 
ally heard him, and when I have seen him persistently 
avoiding the high places which his refined morality 
would have purified and ennobled, I have sometimes 
felt that his self-imposed restraint was a testimony 
against us all. 

While residing at Lynn, Mr. Browne represented 



that town in the Legislature, in 1837. The impression 
which he made upon his associates in this brief and 
youthful connection with public and political affairs, 
was such that, to his own surprise, and during his 
temporary absence from the State, the Whig Conven- 
tion of Essex County, in 1838, nominated him as a can- 
didate for the Senate of the Commonwealth. But the 
confidence inspired by his integrity, and the respect 
commanded by his talents, were unperceived by him 
in a degree hardly to be understood in the instance 
of any one of less sensitive modesty. His strength 
of purpose was surpassed only by the strength of his 
convictions, which were set forth in the letter in which 
he declined to accept the nomination. He was then 
but twenty-eight years old. He had a career before 
him in which he might have secured distinction as a 
public man, and have been no less useful than dis- 
tinguished ; but a pure heart, simple tastes, and a 
modest choice of a position in life, forbade an en- 
counter with the bewilderments and the possibilities 
of moral entanglement and mischance, which such a 
career might involve. His letter of declination (which 
was the last act of his life in connection with the 
politics of any party), well deserves to be rescued 
from forge tfulness, and to be recorded where his 
friends may read the wisdom of that rare young man, 



8 

whose prophecy of more than twenty years ago he 
lived to see historically fulfilled. 

Lynn, November 5, 1838. 

To the Whig County Committee of the County of Essex. 

Gentlemen, — 
I respectfully decline the nomination as a candidate 
for the Senate of Massachusetts, with which the Whig 
Convention at Ipswich have honored me. Upon my 
return home on Friday evening last, after a tem- 
porary absence from the State, I was informed of the 
nomination. It was wholly unexpected by me. Had 
I received, beforehand, any intimation that my name 
would be presented to the Convention, I should have 
authorized some one of the Delegates to withdraw it. 
Before leaving home, thinking that during my absence 
the nomination for Representatives from this town to 
the General Court would be made by the Whigs, I 
requested one of my friends here to be present at the 
caucus, and in my name to decline a reelection, in- 
tending to disconnect myself entirely from party pol- 
itics. In the contest against the past and present 
administrations of the general government, I have been 
and am a Whig. I have been and am a Whig, be- 
cause I have been and am a Democrat, not otherwise. 
In my opinion, the claim of the Van Buren party, as 



a party, to Democracy, is wholly unfounded. In my 
opinion, the political morality of the country has de- 
generated, office has become a speculation, political 
principles a stock in trade, the rights of minorities a 
thing of no account, and government, practically, the 
fierce and uncontrolled will of the strongest faction, 
(and this not in one party alone, but in a measure 
in the other, since evil will provoke retaliation, and 
tends to reproduce itself,) mainly through the influ- 
ence of the administration of the general government 
for the last nine jears. But for several years past, 
it has seemed to me that this strife of the two great 
political parties was occasional and temporary ; and 
that both had forgotten or overlooked in their con- 
troversy the great principles of equal liberty for all, 
upon which a free government must rest as its only 
true and safe basis. To these principles my para- 
mount allegiance is given, and Whiggism and Toryism 
are of no account when weighed with them. Our 
government is theoretically free, but the country is 
not a free country. One sixth of its whole population 
are slaves. I disconnect myself from party, whose 
iron grasp holds hard even upon the least of us, and 
mean in my little sphere as a private individual, to 
serve what seems to me the cause of the country 
and humanity. I cannot place currency above liberty ; 



10 

I cannot place money above man ; I cannot fight 
heartily for the Whigs and against their opponents, 
when I feel that whichever shall be the victorious 
party, the claims of humanity will be forgotten in the 
triumph, and that the rights of the slave may be 
crushed beneath the advancing hosts of the victors. 
The question of slavery, in which marvellous events 
in Congress and in the country within the last three 
or four years have shown the liberties of the nation 
to be bound up, not for the black alone, but for the 
white, for us all, is first with me. The South, and 
the North, the whole country are concerned in it ; 
for in the language of Mr. Webster, (never more 
applicable than here,) " We have one Country, one 
Constitution, one Destiny." This truth is as tremen- 
dous in the prospect of evil, as it is thrilling in its 
hope of good. Slavery was the element of discord 
in the Convention which framed the Constitution of 
the United States ; it is the seminal principle of dis- 
cord in the country ; and almost all the conflicting 
questions which have agitated the country since the 
adoption of the Constitution, have sprung out of it. 
Slavery made a protecting tariff, and then made nul- 
lification, and unmade a protecting tariff; and slavery 
now is at the bottom of the Southern zeal against a 
Bank of the United States, and in favor of the sub- 



11 

treasury, as the speeches of Southern men, and the 
reports of the late Southern conventions at Augusta 
and Richmond conclusively show. He who goes for 
the abolition of slavery, would cut off the source out 
of which conflicting questions of public policy grow. 
These questions are subordinate to it in point of prin- 
ciple ; most of them arise out of it, and are the off- 
spring of it, in point of fact. I therefore know, and 
can know, no party, when the rights of man, in the 
question of slavery, come in competition with party. 
In the approaching elections, my sympathies are 
with the Whig party, and my vote will be with them 
so far as the principles above set forth will permit it. 
Grateful for the honor which the Whig party would 
have conferred upon me, 

I am, respectfully yours, 

JOHN W. BROWNE. 

• 

After the removal of Mr. Browne's office to Boston, 
where it remained until his death, he divided his resi- 
dence between Boston and Hingham, which town was 
the birthplace of his wife, Miss Martha A. G. Lincoln, 
to whom he was married in 1842. Their only child, 
Laura, was born in 1843. To Hingham our friend 
always retreated upon the approach of the summer 
months ; and the delight of his days was, there, in 



12 

the peaceful seclusion of that quiet and ancient town, 
so full of rural beauty, to indulge his love of Nature 
and her works and ways. A holiday, the remnant of 
an afternoon, an hour at evening twilight or in the 
early morning, — when either could be stolen from sleep 
or withdrawn from care, — always found him absorbed 
in the full happiness which he nowhere found so surely 
as in the work of his garden, in his trees and flowers. 
If through his father's ancestry he inherited the rig- 
orous integrity of the Puritan Elder, so from the 
Italian blood which also mingled in his veins he 
seemed to have derived the instinctive perception and 
enjoyment of natural beauty so characteristic of the 
people of Italy, and which no author ever appreciated 
or delineated more finely than his townsman, Haw- 
thorne. 

Although not affecting genera] society, and avoiding 
so much as he did public life, (under-estimating, in- 
deed, his own capacity and adaptation for social and 
for public uses,) Mr. Browne was no recluse. He 
was genial, cordial, and good-humored. He enjoyed 
with the keenest relish his talk with those who had 
anything to say beyond the commonplaces of conver- 
sation. He had a quick eye and ear for innocent 
mirth, for delicate wit, and for a good-natured joke, 
although he was oftentimes singularly obtuse to coarse 



13 

displays of humor. He entered with the warmest 
sympathy into the amusements and amenities of his 
social circle, with the cordiality of one who loved the 
happiness of all, and whose own heart was light with 
innocence. Ill health, or a sensitive nature, or both, 
occasionally gave him an air of weariness, and he 
was never, perhaps, distinguished for that flow of 
buoyant spirits which comes of animal vigor, great 
hopefulness, and indifference to the little mishaps of 
life. Still, he never spoke of any private grief, and 
never obtruded on his friends any personal unhappi- 
ness, or pain of mind or body. His delicate and 
considerate kindness forbade him to share his own 
private burdens with others, but he strengthened him- 
self and lightened his load, as the noble unselfish- 
ness of good hearts always strives to do, by the 
inspirations of sympathy with others, and love for 
his neighbor. 

For twelve or fourteen years our mutual habit of 
residing at Hingham through the summer, and of being 
fellow-passengers on the steamboat plying thither, night 
and morning ; the pursuits which we had in common, 
both professional and otherwise ; and the great attrac- 
tion I found in his character and the charms of his 
refined and cultivated understanding ; led me to an 
intimacy of acquaintance with him such as I think 



14 

has never existed between myself and any other man. 
It is this which has led me to speak of him noAV ; 
and though those of us who were in the near pres- 
ence of his influence may never realize more keenly 
than at this moment, when the turf is still green over 
his head, how much his unselfish example, his un- 
beclouded sense of Truth and Right, and his unam- 
bitious philosophy, made him to us ; yet when I 
reflect on the inadequacy of words to portray any 
man, and on my own unfitness to comprehend, even 
more to describe, this one, I feel that those who 
knew him will scarcely recognize the original, and 
that those who did not know him, will never learn 
much of him, from what is written. 

Perhaps the most prominent and striking feature 
of his moral nature was his genuine honesty with 
himself. If he was meek, yet he was terribly bold 
when truth demanded. And his courage began at 
home. He always accused and tried himself before 
he denounced any other man. Hence flowed a 
sense of freedom, — a self-emancipation, — which lib- 
erated him from the thousand bonds which hamper 
men who are constrained by the necessities of pre- 
tence and sham. This also cleared his mental vision 
and his perception of moral distinctions, — so that he 
walked in the green pastures and beside the still 



15 

waters of a life obedient to the precepts of a sincere 
heart and a transparent intellect. 

His conversation was the best I ever heard. It 
was above pretension. It was not ornate, nor brill- 
iant, nor witty, nor learned. But it was the wisest 
talk coming from the clearest insight, and the truest 
purpose to know the Truth and to declare it simply. 
It was not narrow nor one-sided ; but catholic, gen- 
erous, comprehensive. It was not barbed nor para- 
doxical, like that of most fine talkers, but it was 
toned down to gentle harmony with all the good he 
knew or believed, and was restrained by the just 
respect he felt for every sincere conviction of others. 

He was not a man of extensive reading, — not a 
cormorant of books. He read much in good books, 
not from curiosity, but for reflection ; and he knew 
the best thought of the past and of his own time, 
while for the great miscellaneous mass of literature 
with which most of us divert ourselves, at least occa- 
sionally, he had no taste ; and he spent no time 
upon it. 

In religion he was bound by no formalities. He 
was as free in his creed as the morning bird, but 
he was guided by solemn convictions, was profoundly 
devout, and lived in the constant sense of the provi- 
dence and love of God. 



16 

He was progressive in his practical philosophy, — 
not destructive, but hopeful and constructive. He 
could not excuse what he felt to be wrong, but he 
knew how, for righteousness' sake, to be patient with 
the wrongdoer. But when sometimes the pent-up en- 
ergies of his emotion burst from restraint under the 
pressure of the sight of some unwonted or surprising 
injustice, his words would fall like burning stones from 
volcanic fires. 

As a lawyer he was patient and faithful. His 
learning was exact and symmetrical, and whenever the 
solid ground of established principle could be reached, 
his judgment was as sound as his logic was unerring. 
In artificial rules, not founded on apparent reason, 
he had little interest, and an adjudication of the law 
against natural justice he regarded as an absolute 
abomination. 

The domestic life of our friend it is not for any 
one to penetrate. Those only who in losing him have 
lost husband, father, or brother, can nearest realize 
how genuine a man he was. In the sacred closeness 
of these relations he found the most celestial happi- 
ness which a terrestrial experience can know ; and 
to those of us who saw how tenderly he was devoted 
to his kindred, it needed no witness-proof to give 
assurance that the suggestion of suicide which sprang 



17 

from the sudden accident of his death, was ground- 
less — utterly. But it may afford some satisfaction 
to other and remoter acquaintances to know in detail 
the circumstances of his removal from life, and there- 
fore I commend to the full perusal and confidence of 
all, the following letter from his nephew, in which 
they are carefully reviewed : — 

" Salem, May 22, 1860. 
Dear Mr. Andrew, — 

It is only at the earnest request of many friends 
of my late uncle, Mr. John W. Browne, — yourself 
among the number, — that I address this letter nom- 
inally to you, but really to all who knew him, for the 
purpose of making an authoritative statement con- 
cerning the manner of his death. His life was so 
secluded, his taste so delicate, and his dread of 
wounding the feelings of others so vivid, that it 
would have been a great pain to him if he had fore- 
seen that it was to become a matter of public specu- 
lation how he died ; and the inclination of his rela- 
tives has thus far been to suffer in silence the cruel 
imputation which was cast upon his memory by the 
public prints, consoled by their own complete con- 
sciousness that the manner of his death must have 
been consistent with the purity of his life, whatever 
3 



18 

rumors might exist to the contrary. But they never- 
theless assigned to me the painful labor of investi- 
gating to its source the report that his end was 
voluntary, and I have done so impartially. I am 
now assured by those whose judgment I respect, that 
it has become a duty to my uncle's family to clear 
away any suspicion which may possibly remain in any 
mind that his death was not accidental, and I there- 
fore make the following statement, reluctantly yield- 
ing my disposition to their desire. 

The result of my investigation is, that there is 
not a single circumstance to justify the inference of 
suicide. On the morning of Tuesday, May 1, Mr. 
Browne left Boston in order to argue in the Probate 
Court at Middleborough a case which required the 
attendance of three witnesses, — brothers. One of 
them accompanied him. The others, who resided at 
Hingham, were to join him at the junction of the 
Old Colony and South Shore railroads, in Braintree. 
But only one of these two was present, and he stated 
that his brother was confined to his bed by sickness. 
Mr. Browne said at once that it would be impossi- 
ble to adjust the business unless all three witnesses 
should be present. The party proceeded to Stough- 
ton, where they met the up-train. From Stoughton 
one witness continued on to Middleborough, to ar- 



19 

range for a postponement of tke case, while Mr. 
Browne and the witness who had accompanied him 
from Boston, started upon their return to the city. 
At Braintree, their train stopped for the engine to 
be supplied with water; and several passengers got 
out there, and walked upon the platform. There was 
less delay than had been expected, and the conductor 
called suddenly to everybody to return to the cars. 
In the bustle, Mr. Browne was separated from his 
companion. The latter regained his seat, but the 
seat which Mr. Browne had occupied was taken by 
a stranger, and when the train started he was stand- 
ing, with two or three other persons, outside the door 
upon the platform of the car. These others soon 
retired into the car, but he, refraining (with a 
sensitive modesty which no friend can fail to recog- 
nize) from claiming his seat, remained outside, pre- 
ferring, if he must stand, to stand in clean air, 
rather than in the foul atmosphere within. The 
wind' was blowing freshly. He was standing with 
one foot resting upon the upper step, the other 
upon the platform. He was seen to raise his hand 
as if to secure his hat from the breeze, and at the 
same instant was swung off by the sudden turn of 
the train around a sharp curve. The eye-witnesses 
x)f the event inform me that they saw all that any 



20 

one could have seen, and that there was not a ges- 
ture, a word, or a look, which indicated suicide. The 
position of the body and of the hat, after falling, and 
the condition of the body, confirm the fact that there 
was no physical preparation for a leap from the car. 
Mr. Browne's companion recollects nothing that was 
not natural and cheerful in his conversation and de- 
meanor all the morning. The report that the death 
was voluntary, which appeared in the evening papers 
of that day, was based on information furnished by a 
person whose name I withhold only from considera- 
tion for his feelings, when in this connection I insert 
the following note, which was signed by him several 
days since : — 

"Boston, May 11, 1860. 
" At the request of Mr. Albert G. Browne, Jr., 
I state for the information of the friends of Mr. 
John W. Browne, that I gave to the evening news- 
papers of May 1st the information which was the 
basis of their articles concerning Mr. Browne's death ; 
but that I did not then, nor do I now know, nor 
have I heard anything which induces me to believe, 
that his death was not produced by an accidental fall 
from the platform of the car. Any intimation which 
I may have given that the act was suicidal, was the 



21 

inconsiderate result of the impression of the moment, 
which subsequent reflection convinces me was errone- 
ous, and which I sincerely regret." 

Among my uncle's papers, not a line was found to 
indicate an intention of suicide ; the condition of his 
business repels any such assumption ; there was noth- 
ing in his pecuniary circumstances to induce such a 
deed ; and those of us who enjoyed his confidence 
are well aware how sacred a trust he considered life 
to be. By a singular chance, his last few days were 
passed among his kindred in this old and peaceful 
town, in a brief vacation from the cares of his pro- 
fession. Here, after a long interval of absence, he 
had been refreshing his remembrance of the scenes 
of his young life and early professional study. It 
seemed as if Providence in mercy had led him back 
to the old homestead, in order that his last days might 
be filled with no other than the pleasant recollections 
of a time when he knew no sorrows or anxieties but 
those of a child. He had returned to his office, re- 
freshed and reinvigorated, only on the morning before 
that which was his last. 

I believe that there is nothing now left to me to 
say, except to express a hope that never may another 
circle of family and friends be cut to the heart as 



22 

this has been, by a report published by the news- 
papers, with so little inquiry as to its truth, or con- 
sideration for the feelings of those whom it might 

wound. 

Yours sincerely, 

A. G. BROWNE, Jr. 

One circumstance not referred to in this letter, may 
well be mentioned. For many weeks Mr. Browne's 
feeble health had been attended by faintness and diz- 
ziness as one of its symptoms. How far this in his 
then weak condition may have affected him and con- 
spired to cause his fall and death, is not to be known, 
although the fact is not to be forgotten in its connec- 
tion. But I will not, — and cannot, — seem to apolo- 
gize to man for the providence of God. 

A noble and manly life has closed on earth. Its last 
few days were more than usually serene and cheerful; 
and the prevailing character of their thoughts and as- 
pirations is beautifully portrayed in the following lines,* 
found in his pocket-book after his death. Less than 
a week before, while walking with their author over 
the pasture-lands around his native town, he had re- 
peated them with a fervor and pathos which will live 
in the hearer's memory forever. 

* From " Essays and Poems by Jones Very," Boston, 1839, page 175. 



28 

Wilt Thou not visit me ? 
The plant beside me feels thy gentle dew ; 

And every blade of grass I see 
From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew. 

Wilt Thou not visit me ? 
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ; 

And every hill and tree 
Lend but one voice, the voice of thee alone. 

Come, for I need thy love 
More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain ; 

Come, gently as thy holy dove, 
And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again. 

I will not hide from them 
When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath, 

But bow with leafy stem, 
And strengthened, follow on thy chosen path. 

Yes, Thou wilt visit me ; 
Nor plant nor tree thine eye delight so well 

As when from sin set free 
My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell. 



SERMON 



PREACHED AT THE THIRD CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, HINGHAM, 

MAT 6, 1860, (THE SUNDAY AFTER THE DEATH OF 

JOHN W. BROWNE,) 



CHARLES C. SHACKFORD. 



Hingham, May 8, 1860. 
Dear Sir, — 

The undersigned, having listened -with great satisfaction to the 
sermon preached to the Third Congregational Society in Hing- 
ham, on Sunday last, in which you so faithfully delineated the 
character of John W. Browne, would respectfully request a copy 
for publication, confidently believing that all who knew him will 
be glad to possess so just a tribute to his memory. 
We remain, with great regard, 

Your obedient servants, 

Benjamin Lincoln, 
Daniel Thaxter. 
Rev. C. C. Shackford. 



Lynn, May 11, 1860. 
Dear Sirs, — 

The sermon is at the disposal of the friends of our common 
friend. It is not " a delineation of his character," but a pre- 
sentation of such impressions of his life as seemed appropri- 
ate to the place, time, and occasion. The special individual 
traits of personal character which so endeared him to his family 
and friends, I did not feel at liberty to dwell upon. His intellec- 
tual and social qualities I have not spoken of. I consider the dis- 
course wholly inadequate as " a delineation of character," but I 
give it as " a tribute to the memory " of one whom to have known 
I consider one of the chief blessings of my life. It is for those 
who have known and loved him, and not for others. 

Very truly yours, 

C. C. Shackford. 

Messrs. Lincoln and Thaxter. 



SERMON. 



HE BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH. — Heb. xi : 4. 

There is no voice which speaks like that which 
comes to us after the earthly voice has ceased. There 
is no footprint whose impress can be fully determined, 
until after the foot has been removed from the sands 
of time. The infant, uttering but its first feeble cry, 
and then passing away, has become one among the 
countless forces of spiritual being in the universe of 
God. How penetrating this voice is, and how deeply 
imprinted this footprint, many a parent's heart can 
testify. The earth is thenceforward a different place, 
and life wears a different hue. A change has been 
wrought in the whole world of nature, and in all its 
sights and sounds. The seasons bear another message 
to the soul than before, for there is mingled with 
them that plaintive cry, that spiritual music which 
breathes of trust, resignation, and hope. 



28 

Every human life has its voice that speaks in most 
impressive utterance as death gathers into one tone 
its peculiar teachings. As we hurry on together, im- 
mersed in our various objects of interest, we reflect 
little upon the kind of influence which our friends 
exert upon ourselves and others. When they are 
gone, we cannot but listen to their voice, and strive 
to interpret their utterance. It forces itself upon us 
by the void which it makes in all our thought. We 
miss that tone in proportion to its purity and its power. 
Blessed is that life which leaves an impress deep 
in the tablets of loving hearts ; in the memory of 
nearest friends ; in the thoughts, aspirations, and 
hopes of those who have communed with it from day 
to day upon the earth. For this life still speaks from 
the upper sphere ; it mingles with increased power in 
all the future ; it makes the invisible world a reality 
in that spiritual atmosphere which it brings, and in 
that halo of glory which it sheds around. 

Often when we chide ourselves for too keen a re- 
membrance of the departed, this remembrance is but 
the fulness of impression made by the life whose 
teachings Death has sealed with his ineffaceable signet, 
and has thus given to them the sacred power which 
was their due. We cannot but listen in order to 
catch, if it be possible, that tone which seems so 



29 

much more beautiful and inspiring than we shall ever 
hear again. We cannot but dwell upon the echoes 
of that footstep which falls upon the soul with such 
a sense of rhythmic power. The soul does well to 
keep its choicest memories green. It does well, 
amidst the on-sweeping crowd of life's duties, trials, 
and solicitudes, as new scenes open, as other horizons 
bound the vision, and other interests awaken the 
heart, to listen to the spiritual voice of him whom 
we call dead, but who " jet speaketh." There is 
often no living memory where there is the most 
hopeless sadness, and no sorrowful sickness of heart 
where there is the most intense recollection of the 
departed. There may be, too, no forgetfulness, where 
there is no distinct and definite shaping to the thought 
of that individual life which has ceased to manifest 
itself in a mortal form. The life may intermingle 
with all the spirit's loves, joys, and aspirations ; its 
teachings may come, not in lessons of words, but, as 
a strain of music, blend so softly with every internal 
affection, that we do not consciously recognize its 
presence. 

The real quality of a life is not perceived, for the 
most part, while the senses take cognizance of it as 
well as the spirit. The footprint can be measured 
only after the foot is withdrawn. The influence ex- 



30 

erted by each one is not to be weighed, except as 
that influence is no longer directly felt. It then 
comes over us with a gradually accumulating power. 
It grows upon the imaginative soul from day to day, 
and we learn to appreciate its real beauty, its char- 
acteristics of harmony, of truth, of expressiveness 
and power, as we grow into the appreciation of some 
work of art. It holds, subdues, and purifies our 
whole interior being. The voice of the departed 
speaks in tones of a more thrilling and diviner music 
than the voice of the living. Not until they are gone 
from the atmosphere of earth, does the full power of 
an atmosphere of spirit envelop the loving and self- 
sacrificing parent, the courageous martyr to the truth, 
the heroic and saintly doers of justice and of right. 
Their lives become, after their departure, an inheri- 
tance to the world. And thus the benignant Prov- 
idence makes out of death a spiritual teacher, and 
builds up a glorious form of immortal power out of 
the pallid form of perishing dust. 

The earnest writer to the Hebrews, as he felt him- 
self surrounded by the cloud of witnesses, — dwellers 
in the upper sphere, — heard brave words of encour- 
agement, tones of exhortation to steadfastness and 
persistent truth. And this cloud envelops us now. 
Who cannot hear, if he will listen, voices speaking 



31 

from it to-day — of some innocent child with smile of 
ineffable love ; of some revered parent with kindly, 
cheering, and, perhaps, reproving tone of undying 
affection ; of some dear friend of the heart, giving 
blessed counsel and hope, calming the fevered pulse 
and nerving to fresh endeavor? It comes like dew 
to the withering grass, like the morning breeze upon 
the heated brow. The spiritual is no longer a vague 
and unsubstantial dream. It becomes near and real. 
As day after day adds to the number of those who 
speak to us from its realm of mysterious power, it 
ceases to be that far-off and unknown shore ; it is 
peopled with those living and beloved ones who have 
been the joy of our life, and whom we can think 
upon only as the possessors of a yet fuller measure 
of pure affection, and of a more widely expanding 
sphere of power to act and to bless. That upper 
world is no longer a land of shadows and of death. 
There are members of our own household, and our 
hopes, joys, and loves are entwined with theirs ; 
saintly and revered ones are there whose affection 
is inwoven with each fibre of our being ; lovers of 
truth, doers of good, toilers with the hand, the heart, 
and the brain, for universal ends which were not 
limited by the world of time, and which its loss can- 
not diminish or take away. Those lives, we feel, 



32 

must flow on " without break or flaw ; " they make 
real to us the risen life of the spirit ; they make the 
future world the encompassing and hallowing atmos- 
phere of the present, passing scene of time. 

This speech we hear by faith, and it never " can 
be proved/' The voice comes to the inward ear as 
does the voice which speaks of the existence of God. 
His presence is not recognized by outward eye or 
outward ear. Faith only can bring Him within the 
soul's firmament. He seems to be removed from the 
perception of man's lower faculties of sense, but it is 
in order that man may grow into the higher and 
more glorious life of faith. Only when the form of 
Jesus was withdrawn from the earthly eye of his 
followers, were their spiritual faculties unlocked and 
their inner perceptions made clear ; then they saw 
him in the heavenly glory ; then he was to them no 
longer a suffering man, weary, fainting, dying, but 
the one glorified life at the right hand of God. 
Faith is better than sight, for it reveals that which 
was hidden by the veil of the sense. The departed 
comes as a spiritual presence with an increased power 
to make pure and strong. 

We hear a voice speaking to-day. With what 
solemn and reproving tone does it rebuke all un- 
meaning eulogy! But there are impressions left by 



33 

this footstep that has passed on, which even our 
friend, so modest in his own self-estimate, and so 
severe in his own judgment of truth when applied 
to himself, would not forbid to be read off as lessons 
for our guidance and our consolation. We cannot 
turn away and heedlessly neglect this legacy of a 
life. There can be no gift like that of a life, con- 
scientious, loving, devoted to spiritual uses, and uni- 
versal, ideal ends. The outward gifts of fortune are 
nothing compared with this. Without this, the wide- 
spread reputation, and extended, superficial influence, 
are but a hollow mockery and empty sound. A 
faithful life is a solid and perpetual legacy of good, 
which cannot be wasted or spent. It accumulates 
with the passing moments, and multiplies itself in 
the fleeting forms of the onward-moving generations. 
It is this great legacy that we have received. 
Each step was taken with a fearful sense of respon- 
sibility, and with an earnest care that fills us now 
with a trembling wonder, and makes our own lives 
seem all unworthy and full of trifles light as the 
bubble that floats and glistens for a moment with 
rainbow hues, and then breaks into nothingness. The 
prizes of ambition, of wealth, of worldly influence, 
were before him within easy grasp, but he turned 
away from them all, that he might lay hold upon 



34 

that real possession, — character. To be true ; to 
have everything rest upon a foundation of everlasting 
rock ; to let all go but genuine virtues, and to ex- 
press only that which was actually within, was his 
single aim. It was for him to build up the internal 
kingdom ; to be honest in every thought ; to be pure 
in every purpose ; to be real and whole in every 
deed, and not to seek for esteem, or learning, or 
riches, or influence, or power. He could have swayed 
masses of men by his soaring thought, his sharp in- 
vective, his eloquent appeal ; he could have addressed 
juries with success, for he knew men's motives and 
sounded each man's depth; he knew the weaknesses 
of his fellows, and by what passions and what influ- 
ences they were swayed ; but he would not do this 
and be false to himself. It was for him to guard the 
issues of his life ; and to be a true man was, in his 
conviction, more than to be an effective speaker. 
It was real being that he sought, and not external 
effect. To him it seemed that he must resign the 
apparent, in order to secure the real, success. He 
could not reconcile them for himself, but he did not 
judge others, or make a rule for others in this re- 
spect. So must it be for his own real growth, but 
to others there might be a different method. To his 
own master each one standeth or falleth. He stood. 



35 

His own conviction of what was right for him was 
unalterably adhered to. He saw straight through 
those veils of sophistry by which so many delude 
themselves, shading from the clear brightness of the 
all-revealing light their infidelities and their weak- 
nesses, and excusing their conformities to pretentious 
appearances and artificial methods of thought and life. 
Yet so tender were his compassions for natural, hu- 
man frailties and sins ; so feminine were his affections 
and sympathies, that confidence flowed out to him as 
naturally as the exhalations and vapors of earth seek 
the upper firmament, where the warm, outshining sun- 
beams receive and welcome them. That only which 
was artificial, conventional, and untrue, and yet which 
claimed for itself superior sanctity and worth, closed 
itself at his presence, and removed itself from his 
penetrating gaze. It shrunk, as the birds of the 
night, from the outstreaming rays of the daylight. 
But to him, his own sense of right and vision of 
truth, his own perception of universal, impersonal 
principle, was too sacred a thing to be tampered with 
or repressed. He felt that this higher was a divine 
inspiration, a " God inning in the flesh," which was 
to be treated reverently as a guest to whom he was 
to bring, with trembling haste, and even awe, all that 
was his. 



36 

He measured himself by no external standard, for 
the majestic glory of an ideal form of beauty, good- 
ness, justice, and truth confronted him while yet 
upon the threshold of life, and in its presence all 
the honors, gauds, and shining prizes of outward 
and lower respect, were dimmed and stripped of their 
shining array, and he felt that they could not meet 
the real wants of his being. To him life was a 
battle, an internecine contest of world against the 
soul. Never could he say, " Soul, thou canst now 
take thine ease, for thou hast laid up much treasure, 
thy barns are overflowing, thy possessions are enough, 
thy riches are abundant, now rejoice in thy plenty." 
He wanted Virtue herself and not virtues ; a love of 
truth, pure and unerring in its instinctive attractions, 
and not truths outside of him, however respected by 
other minds. He wanted righteousness itself, not a 
superinduced form of excellence, however perfect in 
its contour of propriety and worth. 

To him life was an earnest struggle to conquer 
every partial and selfish tendency of evil, every nat- 
ural impulse which warred against the beauty and 
power of the spirit. He entered into the wilderness, 
and he heard there, unterrified, the howling of the 
wild beasts of the desert; he bore, unflinching, the 
scorching sun, and breasted the driving storm. Day 



37 

and night was he in the deep, and he felt the bil- 
lows rushing and swelling over him, but he trusted, 
and waited, and struggled still, for he knew in whom 
and in what he believed. He turned away from ap- 
pearance to reality ; he welcomed obscurity, loneliness, 
suffering, and sacrifice. He felt the worth of the soul, 
of a living, internal power of discernment, of unswerv- 
ing fidelity to eternal and divine laws. 

To him it would have seemed but an utter loss, 
to have gained all external things, and, in the process, 
to have lost the soul to appreciate goodness and to 
love the right ; the soul to reverence and to hope ; 
the soul to endure and to grow stronger by opposition 
and defeat, and to become more vigorous and self- 
sustaining with the failure of outward support; the 
soul to adore an ideal beauty, to seek after an in- 
finite reality, to believe in an absolute truth, and to 
trust in a perfect love. No man, ambitious for exter- 
nal ends, no one stimulated by selfish and personal 
desires, ever toiled, planned, and sacrificed for the 
attainment of a long-craved earthly success, with 
more earnest purpose and with a more single aim, 
than he for the perfection of character and the ful- 
filment of his own ideal of a pure, manly, and well- 
balanced spiritual excellence. 

His object was to attain, as a realized status of 



38 

the inner being, that which others are content to 
dream of, and to apprehend only as casual gleamings, 
or indulge in as passing aspirations. His life, as ab- 
stemious and simple as a child's, was without the 
pride of ascetic narrowness ; and, exacting as the 
most solitary hermit towards himself, he was most 
genial in his disposition, and most affectionate in the 
whole tone of his temper and his heart. If he was 
so self-centred, and of so regulated and uniform a 
method of life, it was only because he had the power 
to rein in the fiery steeds of impulse and passion. 
There was a volcanic nature which he " kept under ; " 
there were forces which he ruled as with a rod of iron. 
He was penetrated through and through with the 
conviction of the all-encompassing spiritual laws, and 
felt that in the actual sphere in which he was, was 
the place for him ; that only a change in himself, 
an ever-unfolding growth, could bring him real good ; 
that there was no external sphere, in the farthest 
heights, or in the remotest boundaries, which could 
bring to him the force, or help, or remedy, which he 
did not carry with him in his own internal state. All 
life seemed to him pervaded by the same essential 
principles, and every province of it to furnish the 
same battle-field wherein should struggle sense and 
faith ; time and eternity ; matter and spirit ; seeming 



39 

good and actual fidelity ; acceptance of present, pass- 
ing, superficial desire, and renouncement of it for a 
higher and more universal benefit. 

It was a noble sadness that he felt, for it was the 
sadness of a struggling soul that sometimes found it- 
self in the shadow of a great sunlight ; that watched 
eagerly by the bedside of some feverish impulse, or 
some aspiration, beaten back upon the heart, or some 
consuming anguish of painful sorrow at infirmity, or 
some deep cry for justice and for right, — watched 
for the streak of light that should dawn upon the 
eastern sky, and redden the cold, dark mountain- 
top, heralding the day. It was a sadness of sym- 
pathy with men, to see them as 

" They passed him by like shadows, crowds on crowds, 
Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro, 
Hugging their bodies round them, like their shrouds, 
Wherein their souls were buried long ago ; 
Who trampled on their youth and faith and love, 
Who cast their hope of human-kind away, 
With heaven's clear messages who madly strove, 
And conquered ; and their spirits turned to clay." 

To him the humblest life and lowliest condition 
stretched out into infinity ; it had the same overarch- 
ing heavens for its roof, and the same sun for its 
light, and the same sweet ministries of love for its 



40 

companions, as the grandest and highest of earthly 
environments. He saw a greater than world-conqueror 
in him who should overcome the hosts of evil within 
his own breast, — rebel passions and selfish lusts ; a 
greater than leader of armies in him who should lead 
on, to the sound of a triumphant choral burst of joy, 
the hours of useful toil, and ministration to human 
needs ; a greater than artist portraying the beautiful 
in word, or stone, or color in him who should possess 
those internal qualities of love and purity, of holiness 
and inner serenity of soul, of aspiring faith and meek 
resignation, whose external artistic representation alone 
is accounted so great a glory ; a greater than orator 
to awaken the applause of shouting multitudes, in him 
who should, by single-mindedness and childlike simplic- 
ity of heart, possess that enthusiasm for high, noble, 
and patriotic ends, through appeal to which the speaker 
wins his renown. 

As the crowned procession filed along in triumphal 
march, he asked the warrior for his soul, and weighed 
him in the balance let down from heaven. He asked 
the martyr, as the burning flame curled and hissed 
about his funeral pile, for a purer flame of humble 
and holy love. He asked of the author and the 
artist, not the list of his works, not the catalogue of 
his written books, but the spirit in which he wrought, 



41 

the fidelity to conscience, to the inspirations of beauty 
and truth, to the pure and deathless affections of the 
heart. 

As I trace the imprint of this life which has now 
been completed, and which, like all others, can alone 
be rightly measured when the foot itself has been re- 
moved, I behold a human soul striving so to live, that 
the all-surrounding nature, in which it dwelt, should 
reveal its inner spirit of beauty and wisdom, and be 
a creative power within ; that the common pursuits 
and familiar relations of daily existence should be per- 
vaded by eternal laws ; that day and night, and house 
and field, should be transfigured in the brightness of 
a, heavenly and spiritual sphere ; that the success of 
personal ends should seem but a little thing compared 
with that work which may be accomplished within, 
and that resultant character which may be wrought 
out by their failure, if failure should come at last. 

And what an influence flows from such a life ! He 
is deceived by the mere outside show, who believes 
that no influence is exerted if it cannot be discerned 
in visible streams upon the surface of existence. The 
real power of spirit over spirit is always in proportion 
to the depth, the purity, the universality, of the force. 
Often because it is not direct and outward, it ac- 
quires a more concentrated influence, and when it 



42 

becomes visible, appears upon the surface in some 
broad and deep river, which waters a whole conti- 
nent and bears a nation's commerce upon its flow- 
ing stream. The real force of a life is to be meas- 
ured by the depth of influence in individual souls. 
To have cheered and upheld wavering faith ; to have 
become a conscience and a standard of highest ap- 
peal ; to have received spiritual confessions and given 
the helpful, deciding, and inspiring word ; to have 
quickened the sense of right, the love of truth, and 
the sympathy with the wronged and the oppressed ; 
to have brought home to others the reality of un- 
seen laws and everlasting principles of Providential 
order and discipline in life ; to have become mingled 
with the best hopes, the purest aspirations, and ho- 
liest memories of many hearts ; to have been an 
example of integrity of being, of unresting effort 
for higher spiritual attainment ; to have made the 
veil which separates between this sphere and the 
future, between material and spiritual existence, to 
seem but a thin and almost transparent film ; — this 
is the real influence of that life which has now ceased 
on earth ; this is the highest, truest, and grandest 
success. 

We say, generally, of a life ended here, that its 
work is done ; but to the spiritual eye that deeper 



43 

work has but just begun. It is hidden, indeed, but 
potent and real. It mingles, an unseen power, in the 
air and sunlight, stilling the tumult of grief and pas- 
sion, making sacred the earth, and making real the 
heaven. And there is no one who has been a sharer 
in the influences of this life, no one who has felt its 
magnetic touch, who will not say, as memory is 
stirred within, — 

" Whatever way my days decline, 
I felt and feel, though left alone, 
His being working in mine own, 
The footsteps of his life in mine. 

" And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 
And in my grief a strength reserved. 

" Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 
I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee though I die." 

Lost ! gone ! dead ! It is by faith, by spiritual sym- 
pathy, that these words must be clothed with a new 
meaning. The outward form is removed, but only to 
make more real the inner life, and reveal to us more 
clearly the ideal glory. This is more truly the being 



44 

whom we loved than that which the eye of sense 
discerned. It is the vision made blunt by habitual 
routine, or blurred by life's trivial show, that mis- 
takes, that underrates, that judges falsely. Only 
when the veil of the outward is rent asunder do we 
see character in its true light, and estimate aright 
the worth, and beauty, and spiritual force that dwelt 
within. Then we know what greatness is in truth, 
what joy is in faithfulness, what beauty is in love, 
what infinite glory in the aspirations and struggles of 
a manly and upright soul. 

It is the recognition of these qualities which brings 
with it the very atmosphere of immortality. It puts 
death beneath the feet as but one circumstance in 
the ever-advancing life of the spirit; it enfolds all 
souls in one divine, overarching sphere of love, and 
touches the springs of undying hope. Thee, freed 
spirit ! we shall see again. Taught by thee, we will 
listen to the divine voice ; we will bid sorrow and 
doubt to end, and be reborn in the aspiration after 
truth and beauty, in the communion with all good- 
ness, in the hope and joy of the immortal life. Thee, 
the places here that have known, shall know no more 
forever; but the hearts upon which thou hast smiled 
shall bless thy memory, and the souls which thou hast 
quickened to a higher ideal, shall enshrine, as a sacred 



45 

treasure, thy life of unresting endeavor, and self-for- 
getting, humble, consecrated toil. May we be found 
worthy to meet thee again. Around thee, and around 
us all, is the same all-enfolding arm of love. That love, 
— so far-reaching is its sweep, and so universal are its 
ends, — we shall seek in vain to know here in all its 
purposes and all its methods of hidden wisdom ; but 
we can be sure of this, that love does bless all souls in 
the many mansions throughout all spheres of being ; 
that it shall blend the darkest shadow with the glow- 
ing light, and make the landscape more beautiful for 
the cloud that hides, for a moment, the golden sun ; 
that darkness and sorrow, that suffering and death, 
are but one part of a blessed plan of perfect Wisdom 
and perfect Love. 



AN EXTRACT 



FROM A 



SERMON 



PREACHED AT THE NORTH CHURCH, IN SALEM, JUNE 3, 1860, 



EDMUND B. WILLSON. 



AN EXTRACT FROM A SERMON. 



* * * And there is another one, whose going 
forth from this land of shadows to the realities of the 
unseen but endless life, connects itself in my thoughts 
with that I have just referred to.* I do not know 
how widely, or well, he was known in this community ; 
but he must have been very well known to many of 
you, intimately to some, no doubt, for this, I am told, 
was his native place and early home. I refer to Mr. 
John W. Browne. I never met him but once, and 
that was some years ago. I had never previously 
heard of him. And yet, in a company of persons, 
including several of remarkable conversational talent, 
he left the strongest impression of them all upon my 
mind ; and though the impression which he made by 
his intelligence, his broad, and just, and high thought, 
was enough to make him eminent even in that so- 

* The death of Rev. Theodore Parker. 
7 



50 

ciety ; yet it was not for his intellectual qualities that 
I chiefly minded him, and have remembered him. It 
was for the elevated moral tone of his talk that he 
called forth my warmest respect and largest admira- 
tion. The high honor which he paid to truth and 
justice, the noble allegiance he showed to the cardinal 
principles of Christian righteousness, his unobtrusive, 
but clear and decided refusal to allow the validity of 
the common apologies for a professional advocacy of 
causes sincerely believed to be based on no principle « 
of justice ; and much more besides, which I heard 
from him that evening, gave him a place in my mem- 
ory and in my respect, which cannot easily be lost. 
And when I read of the catastrophe by which his 
earthly life was so instantly t cut short, I felt that 
while earth had one brave, manly heart less beating 
here in sympathy with goodness and truth, and in 
communion with God and his children, there was 
added one to the bright throng of advanced immortals 
who climb the everlasting heights of knowledge and 
love. 



A RESOLUTION 



NEW ENGLAND ANTI-SLAVERY CONVENTION 5 



EXTRACT FROM THE SPEECH 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



RESOLUTION AND EXTRACT. 



In the New England Anti-Slavery Convention at 
Boston, May 31, 1860, the following resolution was 
adopted ; after presenting which, Mr. Wendell Phillips 
made the remarks which are subjoined: — 

Resolved, That in the death of our beloved friend and fellow- 
laborer, John W. Browne, the anti-slavery cause has lost a most 
uncompromising and devoted friend — one who gave to it the aid 
of strong original powers and the most liberal culture ; the ex- 
ample of a life of rare simplicity, and of the most scrupulous and 
delicate conscientiousness — a spirit of self-sacrifice, and a rigid 
adherence to absolute right at every cost — a peculiar sweetness 
and openness of conduct, which won the attention and regard of 
those who most hated his opinions, and a hand only too generous 
in lavishing aid on every applicant ; in him, the cause of woman, 
of the poor, the intemperate, the imprisoned, and of the slave, lost 
a ripe intellect, a brave, loving, and religious spirit, a vigilant and 
untiring friend, — one who spared neither time, money, nor effort, 
and in the path of duty asked no counsel of expediency, met 
cheerfully every sacrifice, paused at no peril, and feared not the 
face of man. 



54 



Mr. Chairman, — You will not, of course, expect 
me, no one would be expected, to analyze a near 
friend in the very hour he dies. That would be a 
cold heart, fit only for a critic, who, in the very hour 
that he lost one who had made a large share of his 
life, could hold him off, and take all his separate quali- 
ties to pieces, and paint them in words. We are too 
near, we love too much, to perform such an office to 
each other. Now, at least, all we can do is to call 
up some few prominent traits that have been forced 
upon our observation as we walked side by side with 
those who have worked and lived with us. 

Very few of you knew that most efficient friend 
named in the resolution I have read ; yet, though 
hidden, he was no slight or trivial servant to the 
great cause. The purest of all human hearts, — but 
not, as is sometimes the case with that rare and 
childlike simplicity, a merely negative character ; for 
he graduated at Harvard in the same class, and was 
linked as a room-mate, and nearest and most intimate 
friend, with one whose intellect is the admiration of 
millions — our Senator, Mr. Sumner ; and he was 
thought by many, indeed by, most, of those who stood 
at the goal of collegiate reputation, the most original 
and ablest intellect which that class gave to the world. 



55 

In the bloom of youth, in the freshness of a rare suc- 
cess in his profession, he placed himself on this plat- 
form in the mob years of the anti-slavery enterprise, 
when to speak an anti-slavery word was starvation, 
when to hold up an anti-slavery banner was political 
suicide. Yet, the most promising lawyer in the county 
of Essex, dowered with the love of the Whig party of 
that county, he came to this platform with that un- 
conscious fidelity to truth which is incapable of asking 
first what is expedient. I remember well what checked 
his political advancement, and it suggests one of the 
great comforts in this life of a reformer. After all 
the seeming sacrifices (for they are only seeming) 
and the hard struggles which are said to mark our 
lives, we are the happiest of the human race, for God 
gives us this, the greatest of all rewards : — as we 
move onward, society shapes itself according to our 
ideas ; we see about us the growing proof, the ever 
fresh and green evidence that we were right ten years 
before. Conservatism creeps on, discontented, distrust- 
ful, timid, thinking that when you have swept away 
the cobwebs the roof is coming down, sighing for the 
good old times, anxious to hide in its grave from the 
ruin and wickedness it sees all about; but Reform 
walks onward, its buoyant forehead lit with the twi- 
light of the coming day, and crying, — "All hail! 



56 

my brother ! I saw you in my dreams ! Thank God 
that he gave me life long enough to see you set joc- 
und foot on the misty mountain-tops of the morrow ! " 
Now, this brave, dear brother, when he stood the pet 
of Essex, was asked, as the condition of another step 
of political advancement, at the very threshold of his 
life, hardly graduated from college — "Will you take 
the Senatorship, and when there, will you pledge your- 
self to vote for Daniel Webster ? " " Never ! " " Then 
be no longer officer of ours." To-day, in sadness, 
with veiled face, every heart in Massachusetts ac- 
knowledges that the step which that young man re- 
buked by refusing to pledge himself in advance to its 
support, was a fatal mistake in the great statesman of 
New England. That instinctive sense of right which, 
standing alone on life's threshold, and at the cost of 
being thought a fanatic and a madman, threw away 
ambition at the bidding of duty, — Massachusetts puts 
her seal upon it to-day, and says, "Would to God 
that we had been as frank, and done as much, and 
turned away the bitter years which closed the life of 
our great, our favorite statesman ! " 

Leaving politics, Mr. Browne, with his characteristic 
simplicity of character and unconsciousness of talent, 
deemed himself unfit for the task which others were 
ready to press upon him. He said to me once, I re- 



57 

member, when I urged him to come to this platform, 
and let us hear again the voice which had delighted us 
so often, " I ought not to be there ; there is nothing 
in me worthy to stand there ; I am shamed away from 
such a post." Yet the best judge in New England 
called him " the most pregnant talker he ever met." 
And never was a demand, of whatever character, 
made upon him, to which he did not respond with an 
alacrity and efficiency which showed how mistaken was 
his own judgment, and how much wiser he would 
have been to have yielded to our entreaties, and have 
led where he only consented to follow. 

You who remember him so calm, self-poised, and 
still in manner, speaking in measured words, one by 
one, saw only half his nature. By constitution, his 
blood was lava, and his soul thundered and light- 
ened at the sight of wrong, especially at any meajily 
base act. Indeed, " thunder and lightning " was the 
pet name he bore among his classmates. But, side 
by side with this volcano, stood, sleepless and watch- 
ful, the most delicate and scrupulous conscientious- 
ness, — too delicate, perhaps, for daily life. When 
plunged, therefore, into our fierce agitation, he doubted 
whether he was justified in the hot moments and floods 
of feeling which such contention let loose on his spirit. 
It seemed to him his duty, the best part and purest, 
8 



58 

to keep the waters of his life calm and still beneath 
the stars that looked into their depths. Such con- 
viction, however, never made him either an idler or 
a neutral. His flag was nailed to the mast — no man 
ever mistook his position. Beneath that flag was so 
high-souled and transparent a life that none could 
hate or doubt the bearer. His professional skill, the 
very best our Bar possessed, was freely given to 
every poor man. Never rich, his hand was ever 
open. Nowhere did he fear the face of man; and, 
as much as our nature can, he surely kept a con- 
science void of offence towards his fellows, and a soul 
pure in the sight of God. Patient of labor, in that 
little heeded and hidden toil so indispensable to every 
reform he was ever ready. Many of us stood here 
dowered with the result of his toil ; many of us 
brought to you his ripe thoughts, which his own lip 
and his own life would have given so much better ; 
and when he fell, I, for one, felt lonelier and weaker 
in my place in this world and its battle. There are 
very few men so true to friendship, so loyal, so un- 
tiring, that you feel, in closing your eyes, "I leave 
one behind me who will see that over my grave no 
malicious lie goes unrebuked, and that justice is done 
to my intentions." I always felt that if Providence 
should take me first, there was a voice and a hand 



59 

which thirty years of tried and stanch friendship 
would place as a shelter over my memory. Would 
to God I could do him to-day, half the justice that 
his sword would have leapt from its scabbard to do 
for me ! 



REMARKS 



JAMES DANA, 



AT A MEETING OP THE CLASS OF 1830. 



And doubtless unto thee is given 

A life that bears immortal fruit 

In such great offices as suit 
The full-grown energies of heaven. 

But thou and I have shaken hands 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscovered lands. 

TENNYSON. 



REMARKS 



On the evening of Commencement Day, July 18, 
1860, after the conclusion of the exercises at Cam- 
bridge, a meeting of the class of 1830, of which Mr. 
Browne was a member, was held at the Tremont 
House, in Boston, when Mr. Dana made the sub- 
joined remarks : — 

I trust that some of the class will give us infor- 
mation of the life of our late classmate, and esteemed 
and lamented friend, Browne. 

You recollect him in college as acknowledged to be 
one of the ablest and most talented of our number. 
You recollect the decision which marked his charac- 
ter ; his courage and daring ; his manly bearing ; his 
high sense of honor, and his impetuous temperament; 
his freedom from boyish tricks, or conduct unbecom- 
ing a gentleman. You recollect his recitations and 
his beautiful rendering of the classics. An earnest 



64 

spirit was infused into all he said or did. He gradu- 
ated, as you know, in rank very near to our other 
departed friend who received the highest honors of 
the class.* 

He did not have many intimate associates, for he 
then comprehended the true aims of life, and was a 
diligent general student, as well as faithful in the 
college course of study. Perhaps he was not popular 
— in the college sense of the word ; but all who 
knew him respected him. During one of our vaca- 
tions he taught school in my native town of Groton, 
and then I frequently had the pleasure of meeting 
him at my father's house. He told me that he found 
teaching a village school anything but congenial. 
After we graduated, I did not meet him until he had 
commenced the practice of law in the eastern part of 
the city of Lynn, in what is known as the Quaker 
Village, where he possessed the confidence and es- 
teem of that community. He soon assumed a more 
than respectable position at the bar, and his friends 
had reason to anticipate for him a brilliant profes- 
sional career ; but after a few years I heard that he 
had essentially changed his views of life, its duties 
and obligations, and had decided to relinquish the 
practice of his profession. 

* Judge Thomas Hopkinson, deceased 1856. 



65 

I seldom met him until he resumed its practice in 
this city ; and then, how changed, how different from 
when I knew him in college ! His spirit seemed sub- 
dued ; he was modest and gentle almost as a woman. 
His manner was quiet, sometimes seeming even timid. 
He was kind and friendly. We had little political 
sympathy, but that did not diminish our friendship, 
and he greeted me almost as a brother. We fre- 
quently met in our professional walks, and our asso- 
ciation was most agreeable. 

He did not try many cases before juries. He was 
quite equal to it, but he did not find the sharp and 
sometimes almost angry conflicts of jury-trials con- 
genial to his temperament. He was an eminent law- 
yer, and fitted to adorn any branch of the profession, 
but he preferred its quiet walks, and more than one 
of his clients has borne witness to me of his ability, 
his stern integrity, and his fidelity to all trusts com- 
mitted to him. 



REMARKS 



CHARLES SUMNER 



II n'y a que les grands cceurs qui sachent combien il y a de gloire 
a etre bon. 

FEjSELON. 



REMARKS 



I should feel unhappy if this little book of tribute 
to my early friend were allowed to appear, without 
a word from me. We were classmates in college, 
and, for two out of the four years of undergraduate 
life, we were chums. We were also together in the 
Law School. Perhaps no person now alive knew him 
better during all this period. Separated afterwards 
by the occupations of the world, I saw him only at 
intervals, though our friendship continued unbroken to 
the end, and when we met it was always with the 
warmth and confidence of our youthful relations. 

Of all my classmates, I think that he gave, in col- 
lege, the largest promise of future eminence, mingled, 
however, with an uncertainty whether the wayward- 
ness of genius might not betray him. None then im- 
agined that the fiery nature, nursed upon the study 
of Byron, and delighting always to talk of his poetry 
and life, would be tamed to the modest ways which 



70 

he afterwards adopted. The danger seemed to be 
that, like his prototype, he would break loose from 
social life, and follow the bent of a lawless ambition, 
or at least plunge with passion into the strifes of the 
world. His earnestness at this time sometimes bor- 
dered on violence, and in all his opinions he was a 
partisan. But he was already a thinker, as well as 
a reader, and expressed himself with accuracy and 
sententious force. Voice harmonizes with character, 
and his then was too apt to be ungentle and loud. 

They who have only known him latterly will be sur- 
prised at this glimpse of him in early life. Indeed, 
a change so complete in sentiment, manner, and voice, 
as took place in him, I have never known. It seemed 
like one of those instances in Christian story where a 
man of violence is softened suddenly into a saintly 
character. I do not exaggerate in the least. So 
much have I been impressed by it at times that I 
could hardly believe in his personal identity, and I 
have recalled the good Fra Cristofero, in the exquisite 
romance of Manzoni, to prove that the simplest life 
of unostentatious goodness may succeed to a youth 
hot with passion of all kinds. 

To me, who knew him so well in his other moods, 
it was touching in the extreme to note this change. 
Listening to his voice, now so gentle and low, while 



71 

he conversed on the duties of life, and with perfect 
simplicity revealed his own abnegation of worldly am- 
bition, I have been Med with reverence. At these 
times his conversation was peculiar and instructive. 
He had thought for himself, and expressed what he 
said with all his native force refined by a new-born 
sweetness of soul, which would have commended sen- 
timents even of less intrinsic interest. I saw how, 
in the purity of his nature, he turned aside from 
riches and from ambition of all kinds, and contented 
himself with a tranquil existence, undisturbed by any 
of those temptations which promised once to exercise 
such sway over him. But his opinions, while uttered 
with modesty, were marked by the hardihood of an 
original thinker, showing that in him 

" the Gods had joined 
The mildest manners and the bravest mind.'' 

His early renunciation of office — opening the way to 
a tempting political career — when formally tendered 
to him, is almost unique. This was as long ago as 
1838, while he was yet a young man ; and here 
his sagacity seemed to be as remarkable as his prin- 
ciples. At that early day, when the two old political 
parties had been little criticised, he announced that 
their strife was " occasional and temporary, and that 



72 

both had forgotten or overlooked the great principle 
of equal liberty for all, upon which a free govern- 
ment must rest as its only true and safe basis." He 
then proceeded to dissolve his connection with parties, 
in words worthy of perpetual memory. " I discon- 
nect myself from party," he said, " whose iron grasp 
holds hard even upon the least of us, and mean in 
my little sphere, as a private individual, to serve what 
seems to me the cause of the country and human- 
ity. I cannot place currency above liberty. I cannot 
place money above man. I cannot fight heartily for 
the Whigs and against their opponents, when I feel 
that whichever shall be the victorious party, the claims 
of humanity will be forgotten in the triumph, and that 
the rights of the slave may be crushed beneath the. 
advancing hosts of the victors." No better words than 
these have been uttered in our political history. In 
this spirit, and with his unquestionable abilities, he 
might well have acted an important part in the grow- 
ing conflict with Slavery. But his love of retreat 
grew also, and he shrank completely from all the 
activities of political life. There was nothing that 
was not within his reach ; but he could not be 
tempted. 

I cannot disguise that at times I was disposed to 
criticise this retreat, as suggesting too closely the 



73 

questionable philosophy concentrated in the phrase, 
Bene vixit qui bene latuit. But as often as I came 
within the sphere of his influence and felt the simple 
beauty of his life, — while I saw how his soul, like 
the sensitive leaf, closed at the touch of the world, 
— I was willing to believe that he had chosen wisely 
for himself, or at all events that his course was 
founded on a system deliberately adopted, upon which 
even an early friend like myself must not intrude. 
Having always the greatest confidence in his re- 
sources, intellectual as well as moral, I was never 
without hope that in some way he would make his 
mark upon his country and his age. If he has not 
done this, he has at least left an example precious 
to all who knew him. 



10 



SELECTIONS 



NOTICES OF THE LIFE AND CHARACTER 



MR. BROWNE, 



WHICH APPEARED IN THE NEWSPAPERS OP MAY, 



SELECTIONS. 



(From the Salem Gazette, May 8, 1860.) 

To those who well knew John W. Browne, it may 
seem almost like an offence to his gentle and retiring 
spirit to take public notice of his virtues and his 
character. Yet he was one of those who impress 
themselves so deeply upon the minds of friends, that 
it is hard to refrain from giving wider utterance 
than the private circle allows, to some sense of his 
worth. 

Somewhat recluse in his habits, few in this place 
of his birth knew him well enough rightly to appre- 
ciate either the powers of his mind, or the beauties 
of his character. To those few his memory is hal- 
lowed and endeared in a peculiar manner. They saw 
in him a man of brilliant gifts — whose thoughts far 
transcended the ordinary range of thought — whose 
common talk was replete with wisdom and with elo- 
quence — to whose mind the subtlest distinctions in 



78 

metaphysics and in morals unfolded themselves in 
clearness — a man of rare endowments, both as to 
insight and utterance. 

And if his mind, wonderfully rich in high and pure 
thoughts, attracted and satisfied those who were ad- 
mitted to his intimacy, his character held them by a 
still stronger bond, winning respect and esteem and 
love. It was remarkable for its childlike and per- 
fect sincerity. One felt that he never did a thing, 
or spoke a word, or made a profession for the sake of 
appearances, or with any thought as to how his deeds 
or his words might affect him in the estimation of 
others. At all times he was himself — impulsive, yet 
controlled — regardful of the feelings of others, yet 
more careful to maintain the right under all circum- 
stances and on all occasions. Fastidious, even to 
daintiness, in his tastes and his habits, he appeared 
never to shrink from any duty, however unpleasant, 
if he felt satisfied that he could worthily accomplish 
the work to which it called him. He seemed like 
one removed from the motives and incentives which 
others acknowledge, and to have but a single guide 
to his conduct, and that, his sense of right, to which 
he sacrificed ambition and honor and worldly profit, 
all of which his gifts and his acquirements would have 
enabled him to gratify and attain to. It may be that 



79 

he did not forego with ease the distinctions and the 
position which he might have claimed, but having fore- 
gone them he had no regrets for their loss. He felt 
that he could not mingle in the common strifes of the 
world without harm to his nature, and he withdrew 
from them, not without a struggle, (for he had most 
of the elements of success,) but yet completely. 
To some extent his feelings in this direction may 
have been morbid, but if so it was a failing on 
the side of virtue ; and he himself was perhaps 
the best judge in the case. His scrupulous, his per- 
haps over-scrupulous conscientiousness, was one of the 
most noticeable traits in his character. It seemed 
to those who knew him best, as if it would be well- 
nigh as impossible for him, consciously, to do the 
thing which he thought not to be right, as for the 
sun to go backwards in his course. This reliance. of 
his friends upon his perfect rectitude was the most 
touching tribute that could be paid to his character, 
as it is now the most satisfactory reflection upon his 
memory. While injustice and oppression in any form 
or against any person created within him almost a 
storm of excitement, he never, or if ever, only for a 
moment, forgot to be strictly just to the thoughts and 
opinions of others as well as carefully mindful of their 
feelings. 



80 

His love of nature was very strong, and peculiar 
in its character. The world of matter was to him 
no dead machinery wound up and set in motion by 
a far-off God millions of ages ago, — no mere arrange- 
ment for the pleasure and convenience of man. He 
saw it instinct with the life of a present God, infused 
with His love, and having high uses and the grandest 
of purposes ; and thus to him Nature was a great 
instructor and an ever-present comforter. For him 
there were " sermons in stones and good in every- 
thing;" and in the smallest insect, which others count 
vile and hateful, he recognized nice adaptations and 
wonderful powers, saw in it a being worthy of crea- 
tion and care, and thus an object of love, — and so 
he defended it and sheltered it with a tenderness 
which not many could appreciate, and which some 
would have mocked. The common things which we 
meet in our walks, — the little bugs and small flowers 
which most pass by, or tread upon, heedlessly, — he 
lingered over and cherished, delighting in their rare 
beauties, admiring their nice instincts and curious 
ways, and ever regardful of them as a portion of the 
great life of the world. All nature, indeed, was so 
alive to him that he never seemed to be more than 
half persuaded but that the things which we call in- 
sensate, — the trees, the plants, the stones, the ele- 



81 

ments, — have a sentient life of their own, hidden 
from the coarse senses of men, but real ; and so he 
was tender of them all, liked not to see them thought- 
lessly broken, scarcely liked to see them disturbed or 
changed. 

His love of truth was supreme — his mental har- 
dihood and moral courage something remarkable. 
He blinked no opinions to which his logic led him, 
nor ever counted their cost, nor shrunk from any 
conclusions (however they might differ from the 
prevailing thought,) which his reason and his con- 
science approved, but accepted them in the simplest 
manner, as God's truth revealed to him, to which he 
owed allegiance, and which he strove to incorporate 
with his common life. The reserve of his nature did 
not allow him to be demonstrative, but he was touch- 
ingly tender and affectionate in all his relations with 
his friends. Uncounted, unrecorded, (except above 
and in thankful hearts,) unostentatious deeds of kind- 
ness to them and to others, and especially to such as 
had need or suffered wrong, follow him with their 
grateful testimony. In their memories he lives as 
one of the most pure, most just, most unselfish of 
their recollections, — upright before God, downright 
before men. A. 

11 



82 

{From the Boston Daily Advertiser, May 5, 1860.) 
In the death of Mr. Browne, the world has lost a 
man, who made it a better place to live in. To a 
clear, piercing intellect, and a rich fancy, he united 
a gentle, rare humor, and a cordial sweetness that 
will make his memory especially dear to his compan- 
ions. But his friends knew that he had a heart of 
gold. None but those who had tested and tried him, 
knew how faithful and true was his nature, how lofty 
his principles, how broad and comprehensive his sym- 
pathies. 

He was from taste and habit a silent man, and had 
no desire for public life. The public, however, has 
always an interest in the death of a man like him, 
since a virtue is felt to have gone out, with his 
life, from the earth : there is, by so much, (and 
how much !) of honor, truth, nobility, piety, in it 



To draw nearer, — yet without intrusion into that 
inner circle, sacred from all sympathy but that of 
silent tears and prayers, — it may be said that, to 
those whose happiness it has been to know him well, 
to listen from time to time to his fervent word, to 
be lifted in sympathy with his calm philosophy, as 
by the strong wing of an angel, to purer regions of 
thought and motive, the remembrance of him will 



83 

always be one of the warmest admiration and affec- 
tion. To his pure and lofty soul the moment that 
changed aspiration to true life, however sudden the 
call, must have been one of joyful welcome ; — and, 
because he has thus lived, we can say, with full 
hearts, " Blessed are the dead ! " H. 



(From the Boston Daily Advertiser, May 7, 1860.) 

* * One hardly knows how to speak of a man 
whose daily life had its daily expression in a noble, 
highly cultivated intellect, in a morality so pure, so 
attractive, so delicate, in a character so lofty, so un- 
selfish, so unconscious, that your estimate of him 
could only come of your own harmony — sympathy 
with his own nature. He was almost womanly in 
his gentleness. His voice had that character of low- 
ness, so 

" Excellent a thing in woman," 

which always commands a willing hearing in man. 
When stirred, and stirred he could be, it was out of 
his large deep eye shone the power and brightness 
of his soul, which, without noise, commanded you to 
see, to acknowledge, and to feel it. * * * 



84 

Our friend was, of course, in ready sympathy with 
the poor, the helpless, the stranger. It was my 
privilege for more than eight years to be associated 
with him in the management of a society's concerns 
whose object it was to help the most helpless of men 
— the discharged convict. Here was a man who, for 
life, had been shut out, for crime, from the cheerful 
ways of man, — a legal slave, — the daily companion 
of criminals, — denied conversation even with them, — 
who was to be solitary in a crowd, — cut off from 
the ready, cheerful sympathy of wife, children, and 
friends, — and in deathlike silence among the living 
was to learn the great reason of repentance and to 
prepare for its meek works. Our society received 
this man into its care at the gate of his prison,— 
took him to hand and to heart, in the full sunlight 
of his new-born liberty, — took him to a cheerful 
home, — clothed, sheltered, fed him, — but above all 
gave him employment in the trade he had learned in 
prison, and which the society's agent had procured 
for him before his discharge. 

Here was a field in which our friend loved to work. 
He was the secretary and was busy at meetings in 
keeping the record. When occasion was he would 
lay down his pen and speak, and thus with his low, 
harmonious, let me say beautiful, voice, give his views 



85 

of the subject before the board. His word of wis- 
dom, which, like that from above, was just and always 
gentle, we heard with delight and cheerfully heeded, 
or when there were different views held by others at 
the table, these had their character from the deep 
tone, the good sense, and quiet manner of our sec- 
retary. 

Mr. Browne had a public life, both professional 
and political. Of this last I knew the most. He 
was a reformer. Politics with him was not selfish- 
ness. He looked not and labored not for place. His 
was the moral of politics, for the science of the 
management of a nation's affairs has a moral — a 
principle which is true as is that which holds the 
physical world in place, order, beauty ; and in his 
political life he looked steadily and wisely to the 
great principle which is the only sure light in the 
path of a politician. He was a lover of freedom, and 
freedom he would have, and defend for all others. 
At times I have heard him speak of the slavery of 
the Republic. He did not for a moment admit the 
dogma of Machiavel, who says, " The interests of 
every republic demand that the State shall be rich, 
and the citizens poor." No. He believed no such 
thing, nor did he more believe that in a republic a 
part of the citizens shall be slaves, and the other 



86 

part free. He made open war upon this doctrine. 
As some one says of Burns, — 

He loved the battle for his bread, 

But would not be its slave ; 
Indifferent if alive or dead, — 

But freedom he would have. 



And what he would have for himself, our friend de- 
manded for every other man. ******* 

He spoke always for man. He was no formalist, 
and had not dwarfed and screwed up his faith in a 
written creed. He would be free, and gain moral 
and intellectual food from whatever source to his con- 
victions was a true one. Nidlius addictus jurare in 
verba magistri, was the motto, the very note of his 
life, and yet so gentle, so gentlemanlike was he in his 
outlived truth, that he never offended you. He would 
have been most happy in the widest, deepest friend- 
ship, in expressed regard and harmony, but he would 
not fight vulgarly even for a consummation which 
would have made him so happy. ****** 

But I must bring to a close this hasty sketch of 
the character of one so loved and so reverenced by 
all who knew him. He has passed away so suddenly, 
for us so sadly, that we hardly feel that he is gone. 
We look again to see him in the busy ways of men, 
working, in feeble health, so cheerfully for others, as 



87 

if all his life were a holiday. We will bear him in 

faithful memory ; and in our knowledge, love, and 

reverence of him, find motives for laboring to imitate 

him. * 



(From the New York Tribune.) 

* * He was a man of very marked characteris- 
tics. An ardent philanthropy, united with the utmost 
gentleness and kindness, a fearless love of truth, a 
manly independence, and a singularly sensitive con- 
scientiousness especially distinguished him. When jus- 
tice and right were to be sustained and defended, his 
purse was always open, and his services free and 
active. He was a warm friend of the slave, and on 
the subject of slavery was ever outspoken, bold, and 
uncompromising. In legal knowledge and attainment 
he was hardly second to any member of the bar in 
his native State, and one of the most distinguished 
members of the profession, now a United States Sen- 
ator, recently remarked that Mr. Browne would be 
one of the most eminent advocates of the country if 
he could lay aside his conscience. L. 



88 

{From the Necrology of Graduates of Harvard College, published 
annually under the direction of the Association of Alumni.) 

John White Browne was instantly killed in Brain- 
tree, Mass., May 1, 1860, by accidentally falling from 
the platform of a railroad car while the train was in 
motion. He was 50 years of age. He was son of 
James and Lydia (Vincent) Browne, and was born 
in Salem, March 29, 1810. His father was the eldest 
lineal descendant of Elder John Browne, the Ruling 
Elder of the First Church of the Massachusetts Bay 
Colony at Salem, whose acceptance of the Eldership 
the Rev. Mr. Higginson made the condition of his 
own settlement as pastor. His great-grandfather, for 
whom he was named, was John White, whose daugh- 
ter, Mary White, was the wife of Elder William 
Browne, and mother of James Browne, the father 
of John White Browne. Both William and James 
were Elders in the East Church, Salem — Unitarian, 
under the pastorate of the late Dr. William Bentley 
(H. U. 1777) — James succeeding at the death of 
his father. 

The subject of this notice was fitted for college at 
the Salem Classical School, under the charge of Theo- 
dore Ames and Henry Kemble Oliver. While in col- 
lege he was the chum of Hon. Charles Sumner. He 
attained to a very high rank of scholarship in his 



89 

class, and graduated with distinguished honors. He 
studied law one year at the Law School at Cam- 
bridge, one year with Hon. Rufus Choate (D. C. 
1819) and one year with Hon. Leverett Saltonstall 
(H. U. 1802) in Salem. He practised his profession 
several years in Lynn, but about twelve years before 
his death he removed to Boston, where he continued 
in practice, principally as a conveyancer, until his de- 
cease. In 1837 he was elected a Representative to 
the Legislature, and in 1838, during his absence from 
the State, he was nominated by the Whig party of 
Essex county as a candidate for the State Senate. 
On his return he declined the nomination, for the 
reason that he was unwilling to become the candidate 
of any party for political office. From that time he 
carefully avoided political prominence, (although he 
took a warm and constant interest in the course of 
public affairs,) devoting himself with extreme assiduity 
to the business of his profession. He took an espe- 
cially serviceable part in almost every effort for crim- 
inal reform and for the improvement of prison dis- 
cipline, during his long period of active professional 
service, and was also earnestly, though quietly, de- 
voted to the promotion of the anti-slavery movement. 
His daily life was an exhibition of a noble, highly 
cultivated intellect, of the purest morality, and the 

12 



90 

gentlest, kindly feelings for the welfare of the whole 
human race. 

He married, in 1842, Martha Ann Gibbs, daugh- 
ter of Captain Barnabas Lincoln, of Hingham. They 
had but one child — a daughter, (Laur> Lincoln 
Browne,) who, with her mother, survives him. 



LRBMr?6 



